


Game Face

by handful_ofdust



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:02:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: More Season One shenanigans. Consent? What's that?





	1. Chapter 1

"Yo, Schillinjah. Yo' bitch on the rag, or what?" 

Vern glanced up from the dog-eared copy of _The Fountainhead_ some bleeding heart cousin of Mom's had sent him, frowning; sure, the Jew dyke who wrote it hated Commies as much as Vern ever had, but just trying to work his way through two pages at a time left him feeling like somebody'd been yelling in his ear for an hour. Down on the quad floor, meanwhile, Kenny Wangler--that barely-legal five-foot pile of high-yellow shit--was grinning wide and pointing at something he apparently found funnier'n a toothless man at a watermelon-eating contest: The sight of Tobias Beecher, Vern's wayward property, weaving back from the shower room with a thin white dusting of junk all over his snub nose, red-rimmed eyes and what Vern had come to recognize as the former lawyer's "normal" post-drug-deal smirk. 

Hearing a rising chorus of snickers greet Wangler's comment; the mongrel horde-- nigger, Spic, Wop, take your fuckin' pick--all ditching their various traditional beefs to share the same quick joke at Vern's expense. And feeling that rush of rage, increasingly familiar, as Beecher came swaying up the steps towards him, stupid-ass half-smile firmly in place: Not getting it, or pretending not to. Or not giving much of a shit about playing by the--fairly fucking easy to UNDERSTAND--rules of he and Vern's basic submission-for-protection agreement, either way. 

(No-brains, no-spine, no-even-halfway-sense-of-self- _discipline_ -havin' little law-boy... _brat._ ) 

Vern shoved himself upright, letting the book fall wherever it took a fancy, and pulled Beecher bodily back into their pod before a passing hack could notice his tits-infected stupor. Snarling: "What'd I _tell_ you, TOby?" 

Beecher paused, pretending to think about it. "Hmmm, what _did_ you...oh yeah, I 'member now: Jesus was WHITE." 

" _You_ are high." 

A cat-sneeze half-laugh, snorting white flakes, as Vern swiped roughly at his upper lip with one well-starched shirt-cuff: Thanks, Daddy. "An' you're per- _cep_ -tive." Adding, coldly, as Vern drew breath to snap back a proper response: "Look, I broke our 'deal'--so what? Jus' get it over with." 

And: _Okey-dokey,_ Vern told himself, grimly. Whatever you want-- 

(sweetpea) 

Slipping to block the watch-station's view, he hooked Beecher fast and hard in the pit of stomach, feeling soft gut part over that surprisingly hard bed of sturdy muscle; watched Beecher fold up with the force of it and sit back heavily onto the bottom bunk, gasp-retching, hugging himself. And thought: _Now, THERE's somethin' we've all seen before--just like the rest of him, every night after lock-down. That smart shyster mouth and those deskjob hands and that still-tight ass, oh MY..._

"Like that?" Vern demanded. "You must." 

(Make me DO it often enough.) 

Beecher coughed a bit of blood into his palm, then studied it for a careful moment before wiping it away, like it might hold the answer to all his problems. Before replying, with a bit of a liquid edge: "Yuh, well...'t does keep me _busy._ " 

Vern crossed his arms and glared down at him, a solid wall of stolid disapproval: How the hell old was he, anyway--32? Harvard-educated, all that crap. And actin' like Vern's youngest, half the damn time...not that Andy was all that young anymore, in actual fact. These days. 

(Christ.) 

"Thought your folks already cut off that allowance of yours, 'cause you were spendin' it on _this_ shit--or what, O'Reilly givin' it out for free, all of a sudden? You tell that slimy Mick cocksucker to sell to his own, or I'll hang him by his Lucky fuckin' Charms." 

"Uh huh? Make sure to pass that 'long, next time I see him." A beat. "Sir." 

Pale blue to paler, narrowed glare to resentful stare under similarly sketchy brows, Vern's sandy blond vs. Beecher's dull gold. With the younger man's rebellious scowl puffing headlong into a childish pout, same way it always did when you wouldn't let the pissy little bitch do exactly what he thought he wanted to--just like night follows day, like count follows free time follows mess hall follows count follows work follows count... 

Just like year follows year, and so on: Five years' worth of seven, with parole finally starting to shine off in the distance like some vague, reflected signal--the lost portal back into a whole 'nother world, one so long gone it sometimes seemed more like a dream. And not a moment too soon, in Vern's fervent opinion. 

'Cause it wouldn't do to get TOO attached to Oz, one way or another--either the place, or anything _in_ it. Not even-- 

(Beecher) 

Yeah. 'Specially not him. 

Huffing through his nose, arms tightening, and feeling his own lightning-bolted flab bulge in response: Puffy, and seemingly doomed to get steadily puffier, no matter how hard he pushed himself in the gym's weights area. An Aryan alpha lion deprived of his pride, swollen big as a bear with carbohydrates and lack of room to roam, this middle-aged shell hardening around him like the ultimate mask of benign, non-threatening paternalism--may LOOK dumb and clumsy, but the fucker can sprint when it wants to and its claws are pretty damn sharp, too. 

Though that doesn't preclude it from being, uh...playful, when it wants. As you can testify--right, cupcake? 

"You tryin' for anything in particular here, Bitch-er?" Vern rumbled. "Trying to make me--" 

(DO something?) 

Beecher coughed again, and looked up over the rim of his glasses, pout thinning: _Who, l'il ol' me, boss?_

"No, sir." 

('Course not.) 

Because, really: Beecher manipulating Vern, for any reason, however obscure--manipulating HIM? _Beecher,_ bent double and scuttling around like a morally outraged crab, forever wavering between those all-too-brief--if interesting--spurts of toddler rage, like the morning after they'd first..."got to know" one another: 

_Hey, Bitch-er, you comin' to breakfast?_

_NO!_

A shrug. _Suit yourself._

...and his usual painful too-politeness, all strain and subtext: _Pleeease don't hurt me, or I might have to SUE, or something._ Then, modifying as time went on; well, okay, you can hurt me, but not too much. A little more, maybe. Okay, maybe just a _little_ more...I mean, I do DESERVE it, after all.

Vern shook his head, snorting; never happen. Not in _my_ lifetime. 

(Or anybody else's, either.) 

Fixing Beecher again, and ordering: "You stay here 'till you're sober, don't care how long it takes--you got that?" 

"Sir." 

"Do you good to miss a meal or two, way that roll of yours is sittin'." 

"Yes. Sir." 

"...okay, then." 

Life back in balance--a place for everything, and everything in its place. Vern felt the hacks' attention begin to shift his way, sensed it in the same instinctive, unmeasurable way some animals can sense a coming earthquake, and swung himself neatly up onto the top bunk, stretching lengthwise: Nothin' to see _here,_ fellas. Just two good roomies, doing their roomie stuff. 

On the bottom, Beecher stayed slumped forward, staring unfocussed past the lenses he'd probably once counted on--like every other vision-challenged liberal chump--to keep him safely away from the rest of the world. Gold brows knit, pout back in place; scanning the pod's interior, through pupils tiny with drugs, for the one thing in his so-called life left safe from Vern's interference. Which would be, at this point... 

...nothing.

***

And hours later, long after the bell had sounded for "Lights out, ladies!"-- 

\--Beecher found himself checking out the delights of the top bunk, for once, though once more in his usual nightly position: Pinned face-up and naked under his "owner"'s not-inconsiderable bulk, the sticky mess of his due marital service cooling between his spread legs, while a further slug-trail dried the flaccid length of Vern's softened dick to the top of Beecher's inner thigh. One arm and leg trapped, rapidly losing sensation, as Vern pressed his sleeping profile into the side of Beecher's neck and spanned Beecher's free wrist with a heavy right hand, like he was taking his pulse. And hot breath in Beecher's ear, like the break of waves; hot, mess hall meatloaf-flavored breath misting Beecher's cheekbone again and again, while Vern mumbled a steady, hissing, sleep-drunk string of consonants cut with maybe one vowel--barely intelligible, even at the closest range possible. 

"Hrrrrmmm...'chrrr. Behhhh..." 

(Bee-?) 

"...chuhrrrrr..." 

(-cher.) 

Beecher felt his nose wrinkle like a forcibly bathed cat's, all annoyed, reluctant acknowledgement: _Sure, you made me DO it, motherfucker--but that don't mean you made me like it...even though you DID, sort of._ As he nevertheless was unable to keep himself from whispering back, automatically: "I'm here. Sir."

"Huh."

An absent half-pat to Beecher's hand, before Vern snuggled comfortably into the next level of sleep: _Good_ doggy. Right where I left you. 

(Now, THERE's training.) 

And Beecher, gritting his teeth--now needing to pee so badly he could not only taste it, but could probably describe each separate ingredient involved--thinking: _So what's worse, Toby? That it's happening at all? Or knowing everybody else is watching it happen?_

(If they even WERE watching, it being the middle of the night, and all.) 

One of the hardest things to get used to, in the midst of a whole barrel-full of hard: How everything in Oswald Penitentiary, let alone the Emerald City portion thereof, took on a certain public element. Here amongst the rest of the glass-walled pod people, you were on constant display, having to front hard every minute--put on what Augustus Hill called your "game face" and shit and piss in public, suffer in public, screw in public, die in public. Nothing was private, ever; nothing any prisoner in Oz did seemed to rate what normal citizens took for granted as simple human privacy. And if fucking somebody else was reduced to just another bodily function, then who really _cared_ who was watching? 

Well, Beecher realized, he'd gladly do it in the middle of the quad itself with every faction he knew about hooting and hollering, if he could only be assured of getting to urinate sometime soon--before his bladder exploded, for example, and he got the rest of his fluids kicked out for soiling Vern's nice clean mattress. 

Right on cue, the man in question grappled him closer, other arm tightening possessively (and painfully) around the bruise he'd made on Beecher's abdomen, earlier; he felt Beecher stir reflexively, somewhere in the depths of his own unconscious, and seemed to smile. _Still too scared of me to push me off, huh, sweetpea?_

And: That's right, sir. But you know...it's not exactly _hard_ to make me scared. Never has been. So--it's not all that much of an ACHIEVEMENT, really.

Just business as usual, in the Beecher/Schillinger pod: Proximity while asleep equalling trust or intimacy, sort of, which made never knowing what was going on while he was asleep--or what he'd wake up to--all the more wearing. A sharp slap across the ass, a fingernail tracing some intimate area, a barked order, a silky murmur. Assume the position, open wide; got somethin' for you, babydoll--better than breakfast.

Or Vern, just... _there._ All the time. WATCHING him. 

Sleep deprivation was a mind control technique, as Beecher knew; Vern must've read about it somewhere (he _could_ read, after all)--in some annotated Reader's Digest history of the Third Reich, maybe. So he'd wait until Beecher was almost finally asleep, then "accidentally" kick the pod window. Belch or fart explosively, and grin when Beecher jumped--real grade-school sleepaway camp crap like that. Once, he'd woken up to find Vern's bicep pressing hard against his windpipe, teasing him with tiny bursts of air. That _voice,_ asking, almost absently: _So where you from, anyway? Cupcake?_

(Never did remember to ask, that first night.) 

And never a kind word, morning after morning after--never a softer public gesture, here where ALL gestures were public, than a tug, a poke, a bruising parody of a true caress. Beecher had done his homework, since being rudely demoted to human Vac-u-Jac. Some owners in Oz had pet names for their prags. Some treated their prags _like_ pets. But if Vern treated his pets the way he treated Beecher, Beecher would've expected some nosy neighbor to bust the older man's bulky butt to the SPCA. 

Everybody watching everybody else, therefore, WITH everybody else--hacks included. Because more and more, lately...now that Vern had taken to turning him onto his back before--the inevitable... 

(and what was that about, anyway? Easier by far to pretend he was a woman from behind, Beecher would have thought; no tell-tale lack of breasts, for one thing, and most slightly over-fleshy hips looked the same in the dark) 

Unless...maybe, these days, it was gradually becoming less about _a_ warm, tight hole than about--Beecher's warm, tight hole, guy or not. Less about the act itself, and more about watching HIM react to it.

(Eeeeeuuuggggh.) 

...but anyway: Looking up over Vern's shoulder, mid-penetration, and seeing the watch-station lights shimmer with repetitive motion, ebbing and flowing and narrowing intermittently to a single tear-deformed point. And supposing a routine conversation between the guards who staffed it, who surely must be able to glance over and get a fairly good view of Vern's big, un-swastika'ed butt laboring steadily back and forth-- 

Hack Number One (Lopresti, or whoever): Hey. You see Schillinger from here? 

Hack Number Two (That Old Guy): Yep. 

H.N.O.: He still fuckin' the lawyer? 

H.N.T.: Yep. 

H.N.O.: Wanna do anything about it? 

H.N.T.: ...nope. 

(Nah. Me neither.) 

Possibly he was fooling himself, but Beecher had a hard time imagining Whittlesey being quite so blithe about the whole affair. Which might explain why he so seldom noticed her filling in on night duty, in the first place. 

Vern shifted again, making Beecher's aching groin cry out in fresh pain: _Oh, God. GOD, what did I do to--_

(YOU know, Toby.) 

Yes. 

(I do.) 

Beecher shut his eyes, screwed them tight as Vern had just finished screwing him, not all so very, very long ago. And thought, teeth gritting: _This is gonna be a long, long night._


	2. Chapter 2

And, at almost the same time-- 

Vern felt Beecher stir beneath him, restlessly, and hugged him even closer, smiling to himself in his "sleep"--enjoying the younger man's vain attempts to mask his growing discomfort far too much to let slip any hint that he was awake enough to acknowledge it. Nothing tickled him quite so much, these days, as watching Beecher sweat; always reminded him of that first lock-down together, right after Beecher'd moved his things over from Adebisi's pod. Grateful chatter gradually fading to shocked silence with Vern's casual mention of "livestock"...those myopic blue eyes goggling up at him, so surprised they lost their normal slant completely: _Surely you, uh--you can't actually mean--_ Oh, NO? Think again, Harvard boy.

(And don't call me Shirley.) 

Gave him something to hug himself over, all right; that long, slow process of branding, making his mark with every ounce of deliberate care such a powerful symbol deserved. Then sitting back on his heels to admire his own work, along with the high-held, sweet-cheeked, lightly gold-furred canvas he'd chosen-- 

"That sting, cupcake?" 

And Beecher, looking back, his glasses already gone the way of the Dodo--unprotected eyes shiny with the perfect combination of hate and hurt, lower lip bloody where he'd bitten it almost through. Half-snarling, liquid: "YES." 

(Yeah, well--) 

"--so'll this," Vern had told him, moving into position. Thinking: _So bear back, hike up, spread 'em wide..._

(...and GO with it.) 

All he'd every asked, really. His simple due: Complicity without coercion, services rendered in return for same. You put out, and I keep you safe. Keep you-- 

(mine) 

And Christ, was this a good deal for some panty-waist little idiot desk-job like Beecher, or what? Got no skills, no jizz, no hope of either, even if you could turn on a dime and shuck that street-dumb wrapper you came in. So here I am, volunteering to take care of you, do anything and everything it takes to keep your ass off the cellblock block--and WILL, without question, 'long as you just... _mind_ me, goddamnit, you contrary little slut.

Other prags Vern'd had, over the ( _years,_ Jesus) he'd spent inside--slut supreme Chris Keller, for example--had all made an initial show of defiance, then figured out their place and filled it: Only practical choice, really, given the situation. But with Beecher, nothing ever came that easy; it was the hitch in the package, the flaw in the plan. And, in some freaky way...the lure.

(Something--different.)

Vern snorted, nuzzling the freak in question's stubbly neck, and feeling him shift in his arms: Yeah, Beecher was THAT, all right.

Kinda funny, more he thought about it. At first, this weak little lamb he'd scoped out and cut from the herd like the expert predator he'd become had reacted just the way Vern had figured he would--gone belly-up (or down, more like), flopped over with his legs in the air and just let Vern do what he pleased, over and over. But what Vern was only now coming to realize--slowly, surely, uncomfortably--was that merely getting to stake his nightly claim on Beecher, while fun, just wasn't enough anymore. That the former lawyer kept the best part of himself hidden away, even now; the real meat of his secretive Yuppie nut. Those intriguingly hard and nasty things barely visible under his soft-gut shell, except for when climax cracked him wide--gulping, yowling, spurting, soaking their mutual mash of stomach and pubes. Then trying to hide from the result, cringing away as though sickened by by the feel of his own sick slickness; stiffening as Vern's orgasm lit him from within, as the overspill glued them even tighter together, his thin mouth a square, silent sob of horrified disgust. 

_And sure, you say you don't want to, never did--but nobody's THAT good an actor. Here I was thinkin' I was bustin' some scared little blond bunny, with you slinking around with your nose down, callin' me sir...'cause I told you to, sure, but that's not the point._

_Turns out, this bitch has TEETH. And I guess...I like that. Want you to show 'em to me, more often than not. To feel 'em on me, biting in. Your teeth on me, my hands on you--my..._

(...cock. IN you.) 

_Hitch up your legs and slip a finger in, knuckle-deep and more--two, three, four, probing and stroking. That routine, taking over again. Every time you go no, no, no...then blush deep, to your ears, and start to churn your hips; embarrassing, huh? And nobody else ever did it for you but me, oh no--I know you better'n that._

(Better'n you know yourself, for damn sure.) 

_Just for me, only me. First, and last, and always. Because I know what you want, much as you SAY you don't--and you, you know it too. Just won't let yourself admit it._

_I own you, Bitch-er, and I'm gonna keep you, too. Never gonna let you go, unless--_

(--you _make_ me.)

***

Meanwhile-- 

Okay, Beecher forced himself to think, with deliberate care: Let's just take a minute, here. Consider this--situation--logically... 

(hard as that may be) 

If you pee the bed, Vern'll wake up angry and beat the crap out of you. But if you fake the kind of nightmare you're usually having 'round about this time of night, only too far away from Vern for it to matter--thrash and shriek, say, even "accidentally" hit him awake...well, he'll still be angry, but you can't avoid that no matter WHAT you do. And he might even think twice before falling asleep on you, next time. 

And: Jesus CHRIST, I cannot _believe_ I'm even having this conversation with myself... 

Nietzsche said it best--or maybe it'd been Augustus Hill, once more repeating the tale of how those pig cops had thrown him off the roof, broke his spine, left him unable to give his wife more than a good tongue-lashing and a big, wide smile: Nothing is intolerable, as long as it doesn't kill you. People adapt; they can't help themselves. You _can_ adapt-- 

(already HAVE, in actual fact) 

Settle in. Allow this terrifying new parody of life to become "familiar". Get to know Vern so well he could predict him, cater to him, set his no-longer-existent watch by him without thinking twice. Because...that'd be smart, right? Make it more like... 

(death) 

...marriage. 

But: _I'm not Vern's goddamn WIFE; I'm not even--anything to him. I'm just this thing that gives him blowjobs and does his laundry, runs his errands and bends over when he tells me to. The thing he he fucks. He fucks me._

(You LET him.) 

Well, yes. But--

 _\--not much longer,_ Beecher could almost hear some other, as-yet-dormant part of himself whisper. _Not...forever._

He closed his eyes again, riding the crest of pain in his too-full bladder, listening to his own heartbeat--and felt things already beginning to shift and slide beneath the surface. Felt himself splitting and reforming, morphing into something new--or peeling away the layers, maybe, to reveal something that'd always been there?

_Always. Even when you were too damn--DRUNK--to see it._

(Oh, _please_ don't make me think about drinking.)

At which point, Beecher lifted his lids far enough to cast a sullen glare in Vern's direction--only to realize that the older man's eyes were already open.

Suffused with a sudden, outsized jolt of rage: " _You--_ " Then thinking better of it, forcing himself to rein back, improvise. And adding, instead: "Sleep well, sir?" 

Vern's gaze in response was level, unreadable. Like always. 

"Yup." Adding, benignly: "Could use a little more..." 

Beecher couldn't keep himself from squirming. "I--I, uhm--" 

"Need to pee." 

(Oh. You can _tell,_ huh?) 

And Vern, raising his non-brows in silent retort: 'Course I can, cupcake; read your mind, just like I can read a--tract, or a copy of _Mein Kampff_ (the translated version). Nothin' I don't know about YOU. 

(Fat, forty-something, fucking Nazi _bastard._ )

Then rolling away in invitation, freeing the crushed half of Beecher's body. Rumbling: "So what're you waiting for, TOby? A fuckin' hand-engraved bedpan?"

Beecher clawed himself upright, trying to ignore the pins-and-needles agony all up and down his side. Replying, crisply: "No _sir._ "

Limping to the toilet, only vaguely realizing he was still naked; an automatic glance towards the watch-station's light, where he could just make out a shaky outline of the C.O.s on duty's bent, oblivious heads. Beecher sat, stiffly, and emptied himself in a painful series of bursts. Then flushed and rose again, just as stiffly; turned towards the pod's metal sink, bending to twist both taps at once--only to find Vern already up against him from behind, incongruously swift and silent, his approach masked by the sound of running water: One hand on Beecher's waist, the other slipping possessively between the younger man's half-spread ass-cheeks; two curved fingers already digging inside, aided by last session's lingering lube, automatic as a key slipping into a well-oiled lock. Feeling for that particular spot--the one which, if stroked, would make Beecher arch and groan helplessly, hiking his hips like a cat in heat.

(Yeah, JUST like that.) 

Works every time--don't it, Toby? Baby? 

And Beecher, turning in his arms and hissing, eyes sparking excitingly: That spoiled brat's grimace, hackles rising over liberties taken. Like he still couldn't see how every part of him belonged to Vern now--everything he could reach, along with everything he couldn't. 

(Including whatever you got stuffed into that uncharted territory between your ears, ToBIas.) 

A half-snarl, almost-snap: How _dare_ you, you...YOU...

_How? 'Cause I'm a man, sweetpea. THE man._

( _your_ ) 

But: Vern stepped down hard on THAT thought, before it got the chance to breed. Just leant in instead, stroking the flat cheekbone nearest to him, and rumbling: "Weren't thinkin' of _biting_ me, were you? Bitch-er?" 

Beecher let out a long breath through his nose, visibly willing himself calm; felt Vern's hand move deeper, and gasped in response. "NuhhhohSIR." 

Voice darkening: "'Cause it seems to me, you been doin' quite a bit of thinking on your own, one way or another. Thinking you can break our deal, get high, like I won't know it? Please." He caught Beecher's chin in one palm, leaning him further over the sink. "And shut those damn taps off, while you're at it--can't even hear myself _talk._ "

The water ceased. Beecher felt Vern snort against his shoulder, pausing as though to collect himself. Felt the fingers ease back out, and thanked what few lucky stars he still had for sparing him the extra humiliation of being steered around like a puppet, literally, with a frigging HAND up his butt.

"Turn around." As he did: "You know you make me look bad when you act like I'd ever let you get away with pullin' that kind of shit, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But I guess that's the point, huh? Make me look bad...make me lose my jizz..." Another pause. "You listenin' to me, Beecher?"

"Yes. Sir."

Resentment in those eyes again, those lowered brows, that growing frown. As Beecher thought: _Point? Be fucking serious. You think I plan this shit out ahead of time, it just proves you really DON'T pay attention--except for whenever you're looking for a convenient place to stick your dick._

_I'm a drunk, "sir." A drug addict, these days. It's how I deal. With everything._

_(Even you.)_

_And, by the by--your own impulse control is not exactly as good as you seem to think it is, either. Witness how frustrated you're getting now, just trying to choose the best words to cover a lose-lose situation; can't really beat--or fuck--what you want out of me, and you know it. But...you've gotta try, don't you?_

_Always, no matter what. Or risk revealing yourself as yet another fallible human being who doesn't know everything, who isn't on the top of his game at every given second...just like everybody else in the world, let alone Oz. Even..._

(ME) 

"Look," Vern said, finally. "I told you once, told you twice--I can't go on lettin' you off with a punch in the gut anymore, you get me? But...if you could just accept that shit is the way it IS, for once in your fuckin' life, just--let yourself _go..._ " Vern let the words trail away into frustrated silence, snorting at his own idiocy. "Aw, screw it." 

_Like tryin' to teach a fuckin' cat to fetch._

He stared at Beecher, annoyance ripening to edge-of-rage, easy as a drawn breath. While Beecher stared back, stomach fluttering--transfixed, and telling himself, over and over-- 

_Game face. Keep your game face on. Don't ever let him know, let him see just how--tempted you are. By this._

These freakily seductive moments between beatings and beratings, when Vern's needs seemed to outweigh his wants far enough to make him almost...well, not desperate, exactly. But softened, somehow; under stress and wanting soothing, ready to give Beecher more attention than he'd had for years in exchange for sex and comfort, some basic placating, for a gentle voice to tell him "there, there" or ask him whether it'd been a hard day at the post office, dear? All the stuff that qualified as the good times, Beecher supposed, queasily... 

The same stuff that made Beecher want to run screaming, more and more, whenever he caught himself recognizing it. Made him want to run straight to Ryan O'Reilly and get too high on the skinny Mick's "charity" hand-outs to even pretend he gave a shit _what_ sort of stress Vern was under, let alone what he might be personally able to DO about it. 

Fear edging into rage of his own--more subdued, but just as vicious. As Beecher repeated, slowly: 

"Let--myself--go. And do what, sir, exactly?" Now it was Beecher's turn to snort--drier, and far more detached. "Skipped a step or two, I think, if love was what you wanted. What's the phrase...'you gotta kiss me BEFORE you fuck me?'" 

"Like I'd ever kiss you." 

"Like you'd ever have the _balls._ "

Vern frowned, bristling. "You sayin' I'm scared to?"

"Wellll...it WOULD be a pretty faggy thing to do, all told. Pretty--pussy-boy."

"I kiss you, cupcake, you'll know you've been kissed."

Beecher hissed, voice narrowing further--scarily feral, even to himself. "Big--fucking--WORDS."

Now the flush went boiling up across _Vern_ 's face, from puffy jaw to almost-nonexistent hairline. "All right, you cunt. All right."

Lips met lips: dry, weirdly tentative, more a peck than a kiss. But enough to give Beecher a slight but definite shiver, nonetheless--one which he hastened to cover up, by snapping: "Oh, yeah. That's REALLY im--"

\--only to have Vern swoop down on him again, crushing the mocking words back inside his mouth with a fat slab of tongue: Hot, hard, possessive.

(-pressive.)

_Oh._

Vern's meaty breath in his mouth, crooked White Trash teeth on his stubble-scraped lips--biting first the upper, then the lower, then both; weirdly gentle nips, cut with just a teasing hint of incipient mutilation. Then the tongue again, thrusting deep, curling against Beecher's soft palate, making him spasm; gag reflex? Suffocation, as Vern's weight pinned and pressed him down? Or was that, actually...a response?

Maybe--one going both ways, even. Too far for Vern's comfort, anyhow, given the speed with which he wrenched himself away and stepped back. "'Kay, enough of _that_ shit." Adding, seconds later, as he pointed to his more-than-half-hard cock--

"Down, boy." 

And: _Well, doesn't THIS look Biblical,_ Beecher found himself thinking, dully, as he assumed the indicated position. _On my knees like Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade, or something--the penitent man, the penitent..._

While Vern loomed above, striking his typical Old Testament patriarch pose: God himself, or his nearest local equivalent, watching from on high as Beecher meekly bowed his head to the task at, um--HAND--

 _My son, thou hast eaten the fruit of the Unclean Tree; my dick shalt thou suck for the next three to twelve. So swallow, don't spit, then go thou and sin no more...not 'till the next time I tell you to, at least._

"Get it wet," Vern ordered. "ALL over." 

And you know why. Don'tcha, baby? 

Mainly through his nose, for obvious reasons: "Shhrrr." 

Vern dug his fingers into Beecher's hair, gripping painfully, and gave himself over to momentary pleasure. Then disengaged, with obvious reluctance--settled heavily back onto Beecher's bunk and sat there stroking himself, patting the mattress next to him: _Crawl up, sweetpea._

(...alright.) 

And now-- 

Settling back further, swinging his legs up onto the bunk. "Now...climb on. _You_ do all the work, for fuckin' once."

(Born-lazy little law-boy brat.)

Gingerly, Beecher settled himself over the one-eyed monster and slid downwards, ass-first. A shared gasp of reaction greeted the movement--the usual intrusive pain, on Beecher's part; a fresh rush of slick, tight sensation, on Vern's. Eyes rolling back, teeth gritting: Urrrr.

 _Shit, that's good. Like a damn--virgin, or something._

Huh. No thanks to ME, I guess. 

Vern felt Beecher's thighs against his hips--that sturdy warmth, long muscles clenching. Looked up as Beecher stared down, arched his back to seat himself more deeply and met Beecher's fingers with his own, linking tight. Fisting his hands, fucking up as Beecher fucked back with unexpected aggression, riding him in all the best senses of the word... 

Asking, quietly: "You _like_ this?" Bucking again, drawing a groan as Vern's spine bowed still further. And adding: "SIR?" 

_Yeahhhh..._

(A little too _much,_ in actual fact.)

Vern growled, and used Beecher's matching double hand-hold to flip them both over, nose to nose. Hearing Beecher gasp, this time--and thinking, with satisfaction: _You like THAT, Toby-baby? Knew you would._

(Always DO.) 

And now it was Beecher's turn to squirm and flush, as Vern regained his "natural" position--dicking him at first from above, deep and slow, then rearing up 'till they were both sitting upright and rotating him in mid-thrust, Beecher's back sealing fast to Vern's sweaty chest. He plucked at Beecher's nipples, twisting like he was adjusting the focus on some old-style TV set, and revelled in the way it made the younger man squeal. With heat mounting steadily between them, and Vern's all-pervasive smell--the musky reek of a middle-aged man in rut, sweating out his passion against polyester-blend sheets in a tiny glass box full of recycled air--erasing Beecher's own scent everywhere they touched, reducing him to a ghost in his own skin. 

Hitching and gasping for air, Beecher found himself pushed suddenly prone with Vern's full weight boring in on him from behind--slick palms grabbing at his hipbones, stroking at his belly as though Vern were trying to trace the shadow of his own cock under layers of muscle and flab With Vern shoving his face into Beecher's sweat-sleeked scruff, ruffling the damp hair back and forth; Beecher bracing his hands on the pillow, face turned sideways, while Vern pile-drove into him like he was breaking rocks: A rising chorus of sigh and grunt and moan, intermittent wet squelch and pop, the steady creak of mattress-springs going back and forth and back. Sobbing for breath as Vern disciplined him with an implacable, unstoppable flood of pain and pleasure admixed, 'till Beecher was barely able to tell which was which anymore-- 

Hearing the words in his head, then, at long last--filtering slowly through almost at the very moment of climax, from way down at the bottom of the medulla oblongata, where all those dinosaur reflexes still nest: Guard Whittlesey's voice, as heard oh-so-long ago...four or five whole months, at the very least: _'Cause if you actually HAD any self-discipline, any of you--_

(--then you wouldn't be in here, in the first place. Would you?) 

...probably not. 

Falling headlong, the world reduced to a single burning cord, a single shower of sparks; a single hot spurt, inside and out, with barely enough breath left to manage one last gasp. And pinned, yet again, with Vern's heart hammering hard against his shoulder-blades--a fresh mess and an extra ache between his out-flung legs. Only the position changed, to protect no one. 

Not even each other, from each other.


	3. Chapter 3

A moment's release, brief comfortless no-dream of nothing. Pure, black blank. 

Then Beecher came back to himself with a groan, part by part, dimly aware that everything hurt: Ass, groin, spine, EYEbrows. His bitten lips pulsing, balls bruise-swollen, nipples raw--wrenched back and strained thighs, stiff wrists cracking as he let his fists uncurl, knees pads of pain. Burning on the inside. Rubbed the wrong way all over on the -out. Lying there, curled in on himself--still, tranced, shivering slightly. His head felt hot and swollen, brain slug-slow and pulsing like it was full of snot; synapses sparking, fizzling as he tunnelled steadily in on himself, sheer concentrated weight forcing him deeper and deeper. Weight of Vern, of shock. Of... 

(memory) 

A year ago, back out in the REAL world beyond this glass-walled little box of hell. Watching TV with Gen and his kids--PBS, natch. A good liberal family night in; exciting, educational, no commercials... 

_...'sides from all those beggin' talking heads, every hour on the half-hour: Oh please, the government's not taking enough of a cut from normal citizens' paychecks to cover our pansy-ass, fake-Commie expenses..._

And: God, Christ, will you just get out of my head, please, SIR--considering it's basically the only place inside me you _haven't_ been, thus far? 

Words on the screen-- _Incredible Suckers_ (Jesus, that title), a documentary on cephalopods: Octopi, squid, cuttlefish. In season, these half-pint calamari clones pass packets of sperm back and forth through a weird process which seems to involve the male half-swallowing the female's head and shaking her violently, then spitting her out again. But if another male wants to compete for the same female, he'll beat his rival fiercely away, then engulf her himself and flush her gills with what amounts to a forcible seawater enema.

Gary's voice in Beecher's mental ear, quizzically curious: _Daddy, what's that white stuff coming out of the fishy's head?_

Um, well... 

(...never mind.) 

Afterward, the male floats suavely by, stroking his traumatized-looking "mate" with a soothing tentacle: There, there, darlin'. No need to worry--you're with ME now. And I'll take care of _everything._ While Mrs Cuttlefish doesn't look exactly reassured--looks, instead, rather shell-shocked. As shell-shocked as seafood CAN look, anyway. 

And... _What does this all remind me of, exactly?_ Beecher found himself wondering. _Right about now?_

 _Oh, yeah._

(Myself.) 

Lying face-down with this fat fucker glued to my back, feeling him snort in my ear and slick his hands down my sides like he's calming a hard-ridden horse; waiting for him to tell me one more time how fucking lucky I am to be here. Lucky to share his pod, to suck his dick on command, to find his fucking _cum_ in my crap every morning... 

( _God. Oh my God. God, damn, Almighty--_ ) 

Still softening, even now, inside him. Tied ass to groin, like two post-coital dogs, by a swollen, seven-inch umbilical cord--the Viking Punishment Rod, impressive even in its (partially) deflated state--and the same thought playing over and over like a busted mnemonic record, yet again, again, again: This can't be me. Not like THIS, not _me._ I went to Harvard. Made partner, made money. Got married. Had kids... 

\--have. Still. Somewhere. 

And now: nothing but Vern, awake once more and growl-snuffling in momentary contentment; rubbing his face between Beecher's sweaty shoulder-blades, like he's wiping himself clean of what--they've--just done together. Before easing himself up, pulling out and away. Hands gentle on the hips beneath, as he separates himself from the clench of Beecher's slackened ass..."gentle", in his proprietorial ownership--his unwillingness to tear the butt that serves him--as a male cuttlefish's possessive stroke: _There, there, darlin'. Honey. SWEET--_

(Jesus, I'm gonna be)

***

Beecher spasmed, hands over mouth. At the all-too-familiar sound, Vern sprang back with almost comical speed, automatically on point, just like any other father who'd spent two kids' first years becoming intimate with the symptoms of Suddenly-about-to-puke Syndrome--Beecher himself, for example. Which was _not_ the sort of observation Vern wanted to take the time to consider right about now, if ever.

Instead, he cast about for a handy container--found none--then wrenched Beecher up by his biceps into a makeshift fireman's carry, without even enough time to curse. Spun him towards the toilet and held on with grim determination as the little bastard retched, jerked, retched again, _spewed_ long and loud. Some of the result made it in, but most didn't. 

(Gah, _uck._ ) 

Vern blinked down, wrinkling his nose: _Shit, was that the same dinner I had? Doesn't even LOOK like meatloaf._

(Man, that is gonna _stink._ ) 

"JEE-zus," he rumbled in disgust, hackles already risen--that good Aryan's fear of contagion, as crossbred with a messy pet-owner's semi-compassionate contempt. "You done?" 

"...uhhh..." 

Nodding, shuddering, sagging in Vern's arms, fever-hot and heavy. Drooling bile. And the submissive bend of his gasping, red-flushed back, sweaty against Vern's chest--the whole weak-kneed, supple line of him-- _rrrrrrgh._

And: Shit, Vernon! Man just threw up right in front'a you--all OVER you, practically. Not to mention-- 

( _because_ of you) 

Yeah, right. Which must mean...he's really NOT enjoyin' himself. 

Vern felt his lips twitch, and swallowed the smile that hovered there before it could be fully born. But heard that unwelcome little voice inside him whisper, slyly, all the same: _No, guess not. And what's it say in the manual, Vern-o? Gotta play NICE, you want your toys to last, 'cause...you broke 'im, you bought 'im._

Eyeing Beecher sidelong, then, and noticing how the former lawyer already struggled to stand on his own, to get as much "polite" distance as possible between himself and Vern's embrace; flushing slightly himself at the sight, vaguely insulted, and just as vaguely annoyed with himself for feeling--anything--about it, at all. 

Vern flicked the whole line of thought away with a single impatient headshake, and demanded, of his shell-shocked prag: "You 'KAY, yet?" 

"Uh--hhmmp." 

(I'll take that as a "yes".) 

Leaning for the toilet paper, tearing a handful free; wiping Beecher's face clean, with brisk strokes. Ordering: "Blow." Then watching as Beecher did, expelling a sloppy mess of snot and heroin-snorting lesion-bred blood; straightening back up, letting go, pointing--and ordering again, just as firmly-- 

"Now...snap to it and and clean that shit UP, goddamnit." 

He was half-hoping to break the spell by provoking Beecher out of this fugue-state he'd slipped into, make him hiss or spit so he could slap him down again, and have fun doing it. But Beecher, predictably unpredictable, simply nodded once more--dazed beyond protest, apparently--and sank down, fumbling clumsily for the nearest handy cleaning implements: His own towel and washcloth, sacrificed without a murmur. As Vern--tweaked beyond normal measure by this numb parody of calm, cheated as some old tom who'd just batted his chosen mouse too broken-backed to run--found himself thinking, perversely: _Well, fight BACK, already, you contrary slut..._

(like I KNOW you want to) 

Because proximity, that best of schools, had taught him this much: For all his professed meekness, Beecher--the real Beecher, peeking out here and there, when riled or teased far enough--came with a pre-Oz lifetime's worth of effortless privilege behind him, used to getting his own way on everything from office wallpaper to corporate takeovers. Which was why, the more Vern saw Beecher going through the motions of respectful pragdom, the less he trusted them. 

Creeping and skulking and striking his favorite pose--poor little Beecher, abused and confused. Same hoity suit probably spent his whole day fucking normal workin' guys like Vern over for coin, screwing widows and orphans out of the family farm, then putting away half his favorite bar before sloshing his way home. Same guy ran over a kid barely old enough to be both _his_ kids' ages put together; just bounced her off his windshield like a piece of rotten fruit and burnt rubber in the opposite direction, hoping the stain wouldn't show TOO much the morning after. 

(Too bad I forget where I put my violin.) 

A strong person acting weak just to "get along", that's what it was; Beecher's cunning lawyer-mind, plotting beneath the counter to make his own miserable life easier by tricking Vern into doing all the work for both of them. Like, for all his pussy education, nobody'd ever told him how you've gotta step up and take responsibility for what you do, for the signals you put out. How--in the REAL world--no one feels _sorry_ for you just because you make yourself look pathetic, and if you act like a bitch, you get treated like a bitch. 

(Know what I mean...bitch?) 

I mean, say what you want--but it ain't like Vern ever killed anybody--that they ever CAUGHT him for, that is. And not for no good reason, either; no one who didn't deserve it, one way or another. 

For honor. For PRIDE. To keep what was his, protect what God had given him, just like Vern'd told the slimy Jew FBI son-of-a-bitch who'd come sniffin' around just after Dino Ortolani went up in smoke... 

And yet: That intrusive little voice, chiming in yet again--same as always, regular enough to set Beecher's stolen watch by. Inquiring, idly: _How much you think God ever really gave you, Vernon? How much time you think the Creator of Heaven, earth and everything in between really puts aside every day for making sure YOU, Vern SchillinGER, don't get stuck having to do your own laundry or choke your own chicken?_

Which was, he had to admit, a pretty good point.

Wasn't like it was part of Vern's job to help Beecher feel he was the one being hard done by, after all. Or like he had some mandate to waste his precious hard time thinking up new ways to help the little fucker punish himself, much as TOby-baby might--did--deserve it. 

He poked Beecher in the back, hard, with one bare foot. "Missed a spot." 

Into the floor, almost too quiet to hear: "...'sir." 

Waking up a bit now, obviously; Vern could see a fresh shiver already rocking Beecher's pale body, hear that familiar hitch growing beneath his breath. He leaned closer, rumbling-- 

"Hey. You gonna cry, cupcake? 'Cause you go right on ahead and CRY, you want to--" 

Beecher paused, mid-scrub, like he was making himself wait it out. Then repeated, carefully: "I'm...okay. Sir." 

And: _Good CHRIST but you are--somethin', you fuck, and I don't even know what,_ Vern thought--usual annoyance tinged, as increasingly ever,  
with a weird sort of admiration. _But you just keep telling yourself that story; do it for long enough, you might even get to believe it._

 _Bet you even think I'm just about done with you, right, sweet cheeks? Think you already proved yourself to me just 'cause you kept your head down and your ass up, this far along; just 'cause you did what I told you, mostly, and acted like it didn't keep you up at night, even when it DID?_

(Well, think again.) 

_Anybody can take what I dish out, they just try hard enough. Difference here is, though, that...I want you...to LIKE it. Or at least act like you do._

Pleading, panting: _Please. Please, sir, sir, don't DO that, PLEASE--_

(Yeah. _Just_ like that.) 

That spreading flush, again and again. That access, proximity, ever-present possibility. _It's my right, 'cause you're MINE, so I can and I will, _'cause_ I can...'till you're raw. 'Till I'm raw. 'Till it's not even--FUN anymore-- _

But stopping himself once more, firmly, in mid-urge. Because there it was again, worrying away at the edges of his established, comfortable pattern of prag-ownership; this crazy outright lust for Beecher hiding beneath the mask of strict, stress-relieving necessity, pushing him far beyond what he'd come to accept as a mature man's normal limits: Two, three, sometimes four times a night, with a few added sessions snatched here and there during the days, too--whenever he could catch the little bastard alone, in actual fact, between the strictures of both their seldom-intersecting work schedules. Need become want, want become need again-- 

\--a weakness, either way. 

Which really did beg the question now already floating uncomfortably near the front of Vern's mind even as he monitored Beecher's progress, his own well-practiced game face a perfect parody of calm: So what was the story with you KISSING him, back there, exactly? Breaking your own first rule of Man-vs.-prag behavior, just 'cause ToBIas fuckin' Beecher _dared_ you to? Not that you ever could back down when challenged, mind you, most 'specially when you've just been challenged by your own damn bitch... 

(But--still.) 

Though nice enough at the time, it translated--more and more--as a potential crack in Vern's shield, a shift in the balance of power so slow, so subtle, he might yet end up with half his jizz pissed away before he even knew he'd sprung a leak. Something to be readjusted. Fixed. Something that called for something to be done about it, if only to make sure Beecher didn't end up thinking he'd gotten away with-- _something._

(Like WHAT?) 

It was a conundrum, all right. And one, quite frankly, that Vern was sick and tired of even thinking about. 

He snorted, and leaned back against the pod wall, crossing his arms. Beecher'd been good fun, once upon a time--cute, obedient, easy to torment--but these days, the bitch seemed well on his way to becoming just more trouble than his mouth, ass or nasty little brain could possibly make him worth. Which was weird, considering how damn simple he'd looked, back in the beginning; another volunteer for Vern to practice his patented shrink impression on, easily categorizable by breaking point and usefulness. A trapped blond rat, trapped like a rat in a trap--just flip him over, watch him struggle, poke him with a stick and hear him _squeal_.

But from almost their first dance on, every time Vern had tried to act on his observations, he'd found Beecher--changed somehow. Slipped away, squirted out between Vern's grasping fingers, like soap in a shower. 

Son of a bitch could look up precedent on Death Row appeals, type sixty words a minute in Lotus, snort anything ground fine enough to fit up his snub little nose. But he couldn't learn the rules, or keep to 'em, or at least PRETEND to for more'n five minutes straight--kiss Vern goodnight, accord him the proper respect, do what he told him with a grateful heart and then shut the fuck up about it, 'less Vern told him any different. No, he just cringed and sulked and sat there like a lump, or skittered off to beg scraps from that Mick fuck Ryan O'Reilly and came back high as a kite, giggling in Vern's face over his own mealy-mouthed junkie freakery: _Look, Daddy, I been BAD. Oh please don't punish me, puhleeeze..._

Yeah, well. 

Warnings didn't work, obviously. Pain didn't work. Sex worked, a little-- 

(too goddamn well, in fact) 

But: All those hoops he'd already run Beecher through, just to see how high--or low--he could make him jump...making him beg for a conjugal, tear up his family's pictures; making him lick Vern's boots, dress in drag, sing a love song. It'd all worked a little, but a little just wasn't good enough, to Vern's mind. Not anymore. 

(Time to wave bye-bye, sweetpea. Time...to let you go.) 

'Cause--that's what you want, right? 

(Right?) 

One last test, then, to really separate the men from the prags: You wanna leave me, then do, and see how you like it--how far you get, with my mark on your ass and nothing to back it up. See how long you like being the latest fresh cut in Oz's cafeteria, 'fore you come crawling back to me, whining _Please, sir, I'll do ANYTHING..._

Spirits lifting, mouth quirking in an almost jolly way, as Beecher rose, stiffly. And remembering that thing the Old Man used to say--only thing he did say ever made a damn bit of sense: _God? I'll tell ya 'bout GOD, you fuckin' faggot. God says, you take what you want. And then--you pay for it._

Words to live by, Toby. 

(Or maybe not.) 

"Nice scrub-job, cupcake." 

Colorless: "I try." 

"Yup." A pause. "Now say goodnight, like a good boy." Adding, sweetly, as Beecher fairly goggled over at him--blue eyes extra-slant with fatigue and strain, a tic jumping at the corner of those cat-crimped lips-- 

"--hey, you're the one wanted a KISS." 

Beecher's shoulders drooped. He leaned in, trying for a peck, and stiffened as Vern took more than his due: A bruising tonsil-polish, hot and hard, with Beecher's reluctant hesitance sweeter than the taste of his tongue in Vern's mouth. 

"Now, what do you say?" 

"I...love you." 

" _Sir,_ " Vern prompted. 

"...right." 

Well. Might as well let THAT one slide--for now. 

Vern gave his prag's dull gold mop a last rough tussle, and heaved himself back up onto the upper bunk. Crooning, mockingly, as he went: "Awww, Bitcher. You're just about the best li'l woman any _man_ ever had." 

*** 

Hours later, a mere half-hour before count, Beecher came awake sobbing silently-- shaking and sweaty, with Vern's parting shot echoing in his overheated brain. Above, Vern slept the righteous sleep of the just-got-laid; below, Beecher could still see the bloodstained dream-face of Kathy Rockwell peering calmly down into his, braids falling around him as she asked--the same way she always did-- 

_You want me to leave you alone now, Mr Beecher? Think you've had enough?_

(Oh, Christ--I KNOW it.) 

Thinking: _I just, I can't--_

_Can't what, Mr B?_

_\--live like this. Anymore._

Kathy nods, "sympathetically". _So...you want to die?_

(...not yet.) 

Knowing he deserved to suffer. Knowing he always did. But knowing, even so--that he can always go back to making himself suffer, anytime he's sick of letting ol' Vern do the lion's share. And that bad as this tar-pit he's in right now is, almost anything must be better, by simple process of elimination. 

( _Anything?_ ) 

Beecher gulped painfully, as though trying to swallow the word--with all its myriad implications--whole, and forced Kathy's face to fade the only way he knew how. He ran himself step by step through a simulation of the day to come, from count to mess to Sister Pete's and back again. Saw himself avoiding Vern for as long as possible after they both emerged from their mutual "home", game faces intact, to sidle out into Em City and go their separate ways: Vern straight to the post office, Beecher straight to O'Reilly for a quick hit of heroin, a cheap jolt of comfort--the incalculably intimate gift of touch, as delivered by someone who may _want_ to fuck him, somewhere down deep in his slippery subconscious, but never, ever would...'cause _he_ 's not a fag, man. Not HIM. 

(Oh, mmm-hmm.) 

Feeling Ryan's skinny arm close 'round his shoulder as he bends to lick white joy from the web between thumb and forefinger, right over the Mick's bleeding shamrock tattoo. And hearing him bestow his favorite profane benediction, like it was some kind of half-stoned psalm: _May the road rise with you...and may God hold you in the hollow of his hand...and may he make sure you wake up sober an hour before Schillinger even finds out you got high._

(Amen to that, "brother".) 

Alone in this glass-walled box with the man he hated most in the world--but would that be Vern, really? Or would it, maybe, be-- 

(himself?) 

\--alone, and lonely, and aching all over, Tobias Beecher clenched his teeth, pressed his bitten lips flat, and shut his eyes tight against everything his waste of a life had become--tight, tighter, ever tighter. He lay there in darkness, willing himself second by second through what always seemed like the longest part of each long, dark Oz-bound night, and found himself once more praying, "harder than [he]'d ever prayed in his life"... 

...for one more morning bell to ring. 

THE END 


End file.
